A Bridge to Go Burning Through
by Radioheaded
Summary: A Buzzfeed Unsolved fic. What would you do for someone you wanted to protect? To save? Shane's not what he seems, and maybe Ryan isn't anymore, either.
1. Chapter 1

It's early. Smog still covers most of the sky, waiting to be blown away by wind off the ocean. For now, though, the air hangs heavy. People trickle into office buildings, clothes pressed straight, ready to collect the wrinkles that will mark the trials and tribulations of the day.

Ryan, meanwhile, sits at his desk, legs splayed in ripped jeans, staring at his computer. He flicks the mouse across the screen, watching as his face is wiped bare of the expression it'd had only a moment ago, a reaction to the man next to him onscreen.

"I'll leave that bit in," he decides, rubbing the sleeve of his hoodie absentmindedly on his jeans.

Coffee. He needs more coffee. The office isn't bustling yet; he's one of the first in. No one will be in line for the stuff of gods, the liquid nectar that will keep him steadily going throughout the day. He stands up, stretches. A few vertebrae voice their protests to moving, but he ignores them in favor of the sudden flurry of very colorful snow that's taken the place of his vision.

"Whoa," he mutters, hands going to his face to dig blunt fingertips into eyes, trying to clear away the lightheadedness that gathers behind his temples, rushing toward his inner-ear.

Like magic, a presence isn't there, then it is. Hands large enough to identify the person attached to them immediately cup his elbows and eases him back down into his chair.

"You ok, bud?" Shane's voice is low from disuse; sleep-rough.

"Yeah," Ryan replies, opening his eyes to a clearer world. Shane looks at him with a raised brow of incredulity, but he ignores the mother-hen routine in favor of what's clutched in his free hand. Scrawled across the side of a very large to-go coffee cup is his name, in loud, neat letters.

"Dude, have I told you lately that I love you?"

Shane smirks. "The swooning upon my arrival might have been a tip-off." He sets the coffee down on Ryan's desk, reaching past him to do so. For a moment, Ryan smells the forest scent of deodorant mixed with the lighter, sweeter notes of shampoo. The mix is distinctly Shane. He breathes it out of his nostrils, jaw clenched slightly and focuses on the task at hand.

The coffee is strong. And really fucking good. He's got to ask Shane where the hell he gets this stuff, because he's sure it's just drip coffee, not even flavored, but he can taste faint hazelnut and a smoothness like chocolate and is this why Shane doesn't have a car? Because he spends most of his liquid assets on what has to be heaven in a cup?

He hums his approval, swallows and looks up to find Shane staring at him. Intently. He jerks the cup back, yipping when some of the hot liquid splashes onto his jeans. He'll deny this later.

"What'd you do to it?" He demands, peering into the mouth hole. "Did you spike it with ex-lax or something, you asshole?"

If Shane's mouth twitches up then, it's imperceptible, a wrinkle ironed out before he can catch it. He does laughing at Ryan's antics mid-cackle, though.

"No, Ryan," he says, slowly, like he's placating a child. That _voice_. He knows it annoys Ryan, knows it gets right under his skin. Maybe that's why there's a gleam in his eye as he shakes his head. "That would be an act of terrorism against the office, not a personal prank. I just noticed you've been looking a little tired this week." He shifts his weight, sits down into his chair and lets the momentum of the movement put some space between them. "Excuse me for wondering why you were moaning like a porn star over coffee, though."

With that, he winks and turns away to boot up his own computer, leaving Ryan speechless behind him.

"Oooook." Ryan cracks his neck, having been dismissed. "Thanks for the coffee, anyway." Another sip. He really has to ask Shane where he gets this stuff.

"Mm." Shane doesn't turn.

The day continues, people streaming around the office at the edge of Ryan's periphery. Since Unsolved took off, he's not in so many side projects. He's not so much an afterthought anymore. A test friend, a canned reaction to the latest in trends or food. Or torture. Those fucking high heels. He rolls his eyes and gets back to work.

The show is moving toward cohesion; smiling faces and inside jokes throughout, edited and neatly packaged when a headache starts behind Ryan's eyes. It comes with the territory, loud voices as a backdrop and staring into the glaring light of a screen all day, but it doesn't make it any more convenient when he has to stop and pinch the bridge of his nose before his eyes decide that it's time to burst out of his skull. He pulls the earbuds from his ears and sits back into his seat with a sigh, eyes closed.

"You ok?" he hears close to his ear, softly.

"Jesus, Shane," he hisses, twitching away from the proximity of the taller man. "Put a fuckin' bell on or something." His cheeks warm, though he isn't sure why. "I'm ok. Just a headache."

"Want me to grab you a Gatorade?" Shane's already on his feet. The question seems more perfunctory than anything; Ryan's pretty sure there's going to be Gatorade in his future, whether he wants it or not.

Yeah...if you would, man. Thanks."

Shane nods, and spins on his heel. His gait is smooth, strides long. For all the bumbling he does in videos, there is grace in how he holds himself. How he moves.

Ryan frowns at his retreating form. Shane is acting...weird. Too helpful. There's got to be a video, _something_ going on behind the scenes that's going to bite him in the ass later. Pretending to crack his back, he does his best impersonation of casual and glances around the office, but no one holds or avoids his gaze unusually, like he's a punchline waiting to be told.

 _Hmm._

"Here."

"A mug." Because that's what's been deposited on his desk, a mug of red—berry? Fruit punch?—Gatorade.

"Yes, Ryan. That's what the kids are calling them these days."

"You know, I'm perfectly capable of drinking out of a _bottle,_ Shane."

"Be that as it may, Bergara, I wanted some too, and as you're the dude who seems to be coming down with something, I decided not to let you slobber all over my bottle, thank you very much." Shane's flippant as he sits, tipping the bottle in question up to his lips and taking a few pulls before rolling his eyes and fastening the cap back on.

"Aww, whassamatter, did you really want this?" He waves the bottle under Ryan's nose, waiting for it to be taken.

"God, you're a child." He mutters, picking up the stupid mug and downing it. He's thirstier than he thinks, though, because as soon as it's gone, he's staring at the faint pink remnants, droplets clinging to the side, and suddenly wants more.

The haze of mid-afternoon brings a heavy curtain of listless drowsiness that Ryan has no chance of fighting if he stays here, hunkered down in the slightly too-cool confines of his office block. He stands, hesitates for a moment before heading toward the courtyard between the various filming buildings. No one gives him a second glance as he passes, hands slung in pockets, stale air in his lungs.

He leans his weight into the door and it lurches outward, spilling long-limbed rays of afternoon sun across his face, into his eyes. The light cups his cheeks like hands, balmy but comforting. The area is abandoned in the off hour; no lunchers at any of the picnic tables on their phones. The trees here, groomed carefully to make the spot nature-lite—outside, but without the annoyance of overgrown grass and bushes—cast too much shadow to make it an instragram-worthy backdrop.

He glances around before he lays, limbs splayed, over the top of one of the tables. The leaves rustle around him, lazy wind winding through them to sing him to sleep. If he'd let himself. His eyelids shut, heavy as velvet-crushed drapes, but as much as he'd love to give in to the comfort of a nap in the sun, a surrender to heat and light and an overworked mind, thoughts of things to do push their way through, a stream that surges into a wave, a crash of _Did we book the hotel for the shoots next week? The extra room for the first camera unit? Do we need a permit to visit the state park after dark? Should I get a booster tetanus shot? Is the editing done for this week's animations? Did all my VO check out?_

Above Ryan, the sun shines just as steady. _Shhh,_ it seems to say, smoothing back his hair like a fevered child. He pushes all the outside thoughts away and decides that five minutes more out here won't kill him, here in the almost-sleep of meditation.

All it takes to shatter a moment such as this is a loud bang that signals someone else's arrival into the secret garden courtyard he'd claimed as his own. Faster than whiplash, he's sitting up, hand at his heart.

Freddie's there, laughing apologetically, her body language a mirror of his own.

"I'm sorry! I didn't know you were out here."

"No worries," he says, grinning back at her. "You just scared the shit out of me, that's all."

"What're you doing out here?" She asks, looking around slyly, though her face falls when it seems whatever she's searching for isn't there.

"Just resting my eyes for a second. Needed some air, too." He looks around now, too, ready to be embarrassed if he hadn't actually been alone there.

"Hey, have you seen—"

"Who're you looking—"

Their words mingle and overlap, and with a chuckle, Ryan gestures for Freddie to continue.

"Sorry. Have you seen Shane?"

"Shane?" Maybe he's still groggy, but for a moment, it's as if something hangs in his mind that wants to contradict what comes next, an instant of deja vu that curls in on itself and disappears as soon as he tries to investigate further.

"You know. Lanky dude. Skeptical. Could be mistaken for bigfoot if you squint?"

"A girl after my own heart, Freddie. But no, haven't seen him for a few hours. Maybe he's doing VO for his stupid hotdaga."

Freddie squints at him, tilts her head before shaking it, brown eyes tracking his as if to make sure he's telling the truth.

"Damn, really?" She starts to turn back toward the door, voice unsure. "I could have _sworn_ I saw him come out this way. Weird." She glances back at him. "Anyway. Sorry I interrupted your nap."

"I was on my way back in, anyway." He peels himself away from the table, licks his lips and follows her in. They're tacky, stick slightly when he wets them. Faintly, he notices that they taste metallic, but it's an afterthought that shuffles to the back of his mind like it never existed at all.

He spends the next few hours doing the same thing, play—pause—rewind—stopping until he's shaped an almost-finished episode. With dialogue and voice over complete, he's left to wait for animations to do their thing, and he'll have one more Unsolved: Supernatural under his belt. It's equal parts thrilling and terrifying, the moment his content goes live to be digested by the masses. They like it now, but what about in a year? Five? Will Unsolved be the most successful thing his name is ever attached to? When will the fans stop caring about questions that can't be answered?

 _Time to go home,_ he thinks, trying to wheel his mind away from the free-fall of what-ifs. He turns to say goodbye to Shane, but the seat next to him is empty, the backpack that had been slung across its back gone.

When Ryan comes to, it's unexpected. It's not waking up, jerked out of dreams by high-pitched alarm clock chirps—no. It's a steady pattern of tapping that infiltrates his dreams first, then whines louder until he gasps awake, reality crystallizing under his gaze in an instant. He isn't in bed. He doesn't remember why, or how he got here. The cool blue-and-white checked tile of the floor under his knees cheerily announces that, at least, he's in his own house, sprawled on the floor, head flush against the porcelain of the tub.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, tensing muscles, feeling out the limits of mobility, searching out anything broken or sprained. Nothing shouts in agony, so he presses fingertips into the floor, cool, reassuring, and lifts himself, though his left hand slides, tacky, like he's squeezing jello through his fingers. It takes him a moment, eyes locked on his hand as it open-closes, to realize that the flecks of red splashed across his tan skin is not paint. Paint doesn't flake off like that. It doesn't smell like rust and pennies.

The floor has blood on it. The shower curtain too, a garish stripe that mocks him, water droplets clinging to the other side, unable to reach the stain he's left, to clean it away and pretend it never existed. It's not a _ton_ of blood, but it's there, and then—he's easing fingers into hair, following a trail of matted locks stuck down with it, but there's nothing, no pain, no sting, no _wound._

"What the fuck," he breathes, voice echoing neatly back at him, tones hollow with disbelief. "What the fuck." Like a train bearing down on him, facts glide through his mind, one by one. He has woken up, on the floor. He does not remember getting home. He doesn't remember turning the shower on. He doesn't remember pain, or falling, or _bleeding out onto the tile of his bathroom._ In fact, most of yesterday after work is a haze of nothingness; memory that was neither created nor stored.

In the distance, through the thin plywood of his bathroom door, the alarm on his phone goes off.

 _Wake up,_ his mind urges. _Wake up, this is a dream._ Fingers tingling, he grips the side of the tub and tries to stand on colt-shaky legs, switching his weight to the sink when he's most of the way up. The mirror challenges him. When he faces it, he expects pale and shaky, the reflection of whatever happened last night. And yet—the only thing out of place is the wide-eyed terror; his eyes shine with it, but all else is normal, skin unbruised from the fall, if there even was one. His jaw hurts, but then again, he's clenching it so hard he's surprised he hasn't spit out shards of tooth yet.

His alarm falls silent.

Staring into his own gaze, he realizes he has to get out. The world within these walls has stopped making sense. He's got to get that sense back. _Go to work,_ his mind whispers, a source of calm, an all-consuming goal he can focus on. _Get in the shower._

He washes his hair in frigid water and finds that, if he doesn't look down, he can pretend not to see the slick of red that rinses away with his shampoo. He's tender with the back of his head, careful, but he needn't be. There's nothing wrong. Nothing.

He shuts the shower off and steps out, wiping off and dropping the towel so it covers the stain on the floor. Just like that, it doesn't exist, and he leaves the bathroom, the air of his apartment even cooler on his damp skin. It feels good. Light. His phone is on an end table next to the couch that faces the television, which is also on. No calls, no texts from friends that would hint he'd done something, gone somewhere—drank too much, been roofied. Nothing. He rolls his shoulders and dresses in the first things he can find that match. Details don't matter right now.

 _Go,_ he tells himself, not bothering to gel his hair (that's what hats are for), or look twice in the mirror as he leaves.

His illusion almost breaks when he realizes, car keys in hand, that he doesn't want to drive. People who wake up with head injuries ( _where?_ ) and amnesia ( _no, keep pretending_ ) should not get behind the wheel. That much he knows.

Uber to the rescue, in more ways than one. The driver who picks him up is chatty, interested when she sees she's dropping him off at the Buzzfeed offices. She is a distraction, all curious questions and upturned eyes. Friendly. She must be tapping her foot or something, though, because Ryan keeps hearing a low, rhythmic thud throughout the drive, like someone keeping time to music. Just...completely off-beat.

With the window down, idle chatter flowing like the traffic in front of them, he can pretend. Because—and his mind doesn't hover on this for too long because it is strange _wrong_ weird, he feels _good._ Like, slept for 16 hours without interruption, good. Which...he might have. Energy hums in his veins to the point of vibration; thoughts come clearer, more focused. He's never heard of anyone hitting their head and getting smarter, but _fuck._ Wouldn't that be funny. He scoffs at the thought, and the girl gives him a sideways glance, but he explains it away and offers a crooked grin.

The ride is over soon enough, though, so he waves and thanks his uber as she pulls away. Then he's alone on the sidewalk, given a moment's time to breathe out. He's made it. Relief. No more thoughts about blood and missing time. He never thought he'd take comfort in what he usually fears; the ghouls and ghosts and long-legged beasties of Unsolved: Supernatural. But those mysteries, those legends are like the sea. He can wade in and lose himself because they aren't about _him_.

He almost makes it, too. He's close, a hairsbreadth away from slipping into normalcy like it fits and pretending this morning's incident never happened. Then he turns the corner toward his desk and sees someone sitting there, the sole other person in the office.

Shane.

Dark eyes look up, meet his own, and in an instant, the world tilts violently on its axis. That low buzz in his veins swells into a crescendo of vibration, and inside, in the recesses of his mind, his body, somewhere deep he doesn't understand, somewhere urgent and primal and _insistent_ , something clicks, a lock in a key, a puzzle piece falling into place. Ryan's shaking, feet not cooperating as he shouts internally at them to just _move._ Instead, Shane stands, eyes wide, mouth set in a grim line of worry that pulls down at the edges.

Shane reaches him, grasps his arm and stares into him, gaze jumping from one eye to the other, and the lights must be reflecting or something because the other man's gaze seems deeper, somehow, a glimmering _blue_ within their depths. It distracts him from the touch, the warmth that radiates up his arm _firm_ and _safe._

"What," Shane whispers, voice dead of emotion, "Did you do?"


	2. Chapter 2

Shane likes logic. It's sewed into the core of his being, the black and white lines that shape his world. People waxing mystical near him usually earn themselves an eye roll, because, _really?_ Chills down the spine, strange noises at night, phantom touches running across skin?

The human mind is powerful, but it is also primal. And in its very essence, it responds to threats, perceived or real. Higher thinking fills in the blanks, and you've got ghosts born from the creaks of a house relaxing at night, demons used to explain away the very real and terrifying parts of human nature.

Though he'd never admit it, maybe it happens _because_ he's so settled into his convictions, so easily able to dismiss the 'unexplained' as fanciful creations from minds that have a slightly tenuous grasp on the actual reality. Maybe the universe likes to make lessons out of know-it-alls.

After it happens, he'll admit that he knows a hell of a lot less than he thought he did.

He's two weeks into living in California, teetering on a knife-point between exhilaration and fear. His savings (and a hefty 'gift' from his parents) are invested in an apartment he shares with a college friend, both intent on making their mark on the entertainment world somehow. He's not interested in being an actor, per se. He knows he'd never be a leading man. Not with the slope of his nose, the awkward length of his limbs and the sadness his down-turned eyes always seem to radiate. But he knows cameras. He's been lectured to death on film technique, and the ins-and-outs of editing are fresh in his mind. If he can't be in content, he's happy to try and create it.

His days are spent on the internet, posting resumes, applying for any and all positions available until his fingers stiffen in protest. He's not expecting to find his dream job on the first go round; he knows that, most likely, he'll work for a year or two somewhere just to keep himself afloat and fed before he can springboard off that into where he truly wants to be. Not an entirely encouraging situation, but it is reality.

A sharp rap of knuckles sounds on the door to his bedroom. Before he has the chance to say anything, it's pushed open to reveal his roommate, Mark.

"You know, the whole point of knocking is for me to say it's ok to come in, asshole," he says, but without any real heat. Mark's definition of boundaries and personal space are shaky at best, but with all the intent of a puppy too excited to wait for directions. The shock of thick, black hair and cool grey eyes have Shane thinking Husky, perhaps. He shrugs off Shane's words with a wink.

"I gave you enough time to put it away if you were jerkin' it." He sprawls heavily on Shane's bed, flopping back against the grey and blue stripes of the comforter, weightless. Shane's mother bought it for him before he left, packed it in his car with a note about how he should want to impress any 'guests' he ever has. He imagines, had she said it in person, there would have been a sly wink used to punctuate the words and to fully cement the insinuation of any and all future bed partners.

He rolls his eyes at Mark, and the memory of his mother.

"So?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "What do you want?"

"To go out." He waves a hand at Shane's near instantaneous protests, silencing him.

"Not to a club, or anything. Just to a bar or something. You've been here for what, a few weeks now?"

"Yeah," Shane says slowly.

"And when's the last time you've gotten out of the apartment?"

"This morning," he replies, snidely. He doesn't add that it was for coffee.

"That was for coffee."

Damn. Points to his friend for being more observant than he looks. But if he flips back through the stream of days that have all begun to blur into one another, he has to admit it. He hasn't really done much except look for work.

"You need a break. And a beer." There might just be concern bleeding in through the edges of Mark's words. Shane doesn't touch on it.

"Fine, fine," he agrees. "But until we go, leave me alone so I can get more applications done, ok?"

"Yeah, whatever, shut-in." Mark rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Shower before we go. And shave. You're starting to look like the unibomber."

Shane flips him off as he leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

The bar is not quite what Shane expected. The front is open, a make-shift dance floor, with tables behind, encircling the space. Shane looks sideways at Mark as they enter, but the other man pretends not to notice, instead making a beeline for the bar.

"First round's on me," He says, voice raising over the upbeat music just loud enough to make conversation a struggle. "Grab us a table."

Shane does, one halfway between the entrance and the bar, and sits, sliding his jean jacket off. He's not sure why he brought it in the first place; the night is warm, breezy. While he waits, he takes in the moody lighting, the chatter of people around him as they laugh and talk and connect with one another. He's adrift, for a moment, lost to the realization that, aside from Mark, he knows no one here. The bar, California. He's transplanted, but with no real place to dig roots yet. He wonders if his friend feels sorry for him.

Shane's never been the loudest of the group, but he's not introverted. He knows he can be charming, that he can get people to open up to him fairly easily, but lately it's just felt...pointless. All the idle conversation starters he'd face would reveal that, for now, he's relying on hope and good luck to get him started and keep him here. And that's something he barely wants to admit to himself.

The cold press of a sweating bottle against his fingers breaks him away from his thoughts, though. He grips the beer's neck, idly traces a bead of condensation down the slope of the rim and then tips it back, swallowing deeply.

"Told you."

He looks up, and Mark's grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "You needed a beer."

"Guess I did," he agrees, but it's a soft admission. He clears his throat.

"So, this place is...interesting."

Mark hears the skeptical inflection that colors his words and tisks at him.

"Uh-uh, Stretch. No judging. It's a fun place with cheap drinks and people who are generally not assholes. Leave the cynicism at home for once, ok?" The slap on the back Shane gets is firm enough to know Mark's only half serious, so he rolls his shoulders and relaxes into the chair underneath him, taking another deep drink from his beer.

"Yes, sir. Opening mind. Closing mouth."

"Now, that's what I like to hear," Mark grins, turning to survey the building crowd. "Let's have some fun."

Four beers into fun, Shane's mind is honey-slow. He's reclined, elbows pressed back into the chair behind him, gazing lazily across the way as Mark chats up a brunette at the bar, leaning into her as she laughs and squeezes his arm.

Shane's had some good conversation, flirted idly for a bit, but no man or woman here is really attracting his attention. For now, he's content to sip the contents of his drink and people watch.

Or would, until his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 _This girl wants to go back to her place._ Mark's words are direct enough. _You good to get home?_

 _It's a fifteen minute walk,_ he types back. _I think, somehow, I'll manage. Have a good time._

 _You know it,_ is his reply. He glances up to see Mark tucking his cell phone into his pocket, turning his way to nod goodbye, then focusing back on the woman, his hand gently hovering on her lower back, leading the way out the door. Shane shakes his head. He'll leave after this drink.

And leave he does, heading off into the night with his jacket slung over one arm, pace languid like the still air of the night around him. The quiet settles in a few blocks from the bar, his steps the only break in the tranquility as he passes long-closed businesses. He breathes the peace in deep, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, tipsy mind slow and hopeful. The evening has opened something within him, a sliver of what his life _could_ be here.

His gentle reverie slips away like smoke through fingers when, as he's just about to pass the wide mouth of an alley, he hears something like a soft sigh. It's barely there, caught late by the slow reaction of an alcohol-blurred mind. He pauses for only a moment, but it's enough for the person who'd been walking behind him, footfalls soft and discreet, to catch up.

Steel touches the skin of his neck, cool and firm, though it doesn't compare to the ice of adrenaline that streams into his veins, sprinting toward a heart that stutters in an effort to keep up.

"Give me your wallet, nice and easy," The voice is loud in his ear, not gruff, but assured, breath hot on the short hairs of his neck. He's side-stepped toward the abyss of the alley, allowed to turn around, though the knife stays where it is, a silent but very persuasive threat.

"Just take it," Shane says, slipping the billfold out of his back pocket, hands up, placating. The other man's featured are harsh, angular. His jaw is wide, mouth set in a thin line. His eyes are dark, Deep like water at night but with no end; emptiness the only thing contained within them.

 _Please,_ Shane thinks, unable to look away, to tear his gaze from the stranger's. _I don't want to die._

It's almost as if the man can read his mind, like Shane's thoughts flicker through his eyes because as he leans forward, snatches the wallet and pockets it, he sneers. He's enjoying this.

"Ok," Shane says. "You have what you want—"

He's interrupted, braced on the shoulder and pushed backward, colliding with brick wall. First his back, then his head. There's light behind his eyes, ringing in his ears and still, that hand on his shoulder. Fingers dig in, and then heat laces through his nerves, curls in his stomach so suddenly he almost collapses in on himself entirely.

It's then that he looks down, sees the long slash in his shirt, starting at his left hip, a diagonal up to his right ribs. The blue-checked material blooms red, and the man, looking up at Shane, smiles as he pulls the knife out and backs away, looking to the right suddenly, like he hears something just out of sight. Shane doesn't notice this, though, because his vision is already blurring. A roaring sounds in his ears, like the roll of ocean waves. Light and color shift wildly in front of him, and he idly thinks of a computer system going berserk, codes collapsing before a system crash.

The sharp snap of a palm connecting with his cheek brings clarity back, though it's shaky at the edges. There's a hand bunching at the collar of his shirt, holding him up, a face close to his. But it's not his attacker.

 _Who're you?_

"Doesn't matter right now." Softly accented words flow over him, hypnotic in their cadence. "You need to concentrate."

"Concen—concentrate?" Shane barks a laugh, at the absurdity of the command, and blood comes up from his lungs to coat teeth and lips and the chin of this new stranger. "Dying."

"Yes," the stranger says. "Right now, you're dying. But you don't have to. I can help you."

"Help?" Shane sputters. More blood leaks between his teeth, hot and metallic as it dribbles down his chin. "Hospital?"

"Right now, Shane. Yes or no. _Do you want to live?"_

The stranger's eyes, Shane notices, are strange. They look dark and light at the same time, brown, but with an alien depth so light it almost reflects silver. But unlike his attacker's empty depths, meeting this gaze is like coming home on a cold day. He loses himself, for a moment, is locked in an eternity with the man cradling his broken body. The facts are there, laid out in front of him. He is dying. He feels loose within himself, like he's holding on to a fraying rope swinging above a bottomless void. If he doesn't give in, he's going to fall away into nothingness.

"Yes," he whispers, the heat of tears trickling from his eyes, leaving warm salt in their wake.

Shane resurfaces to pressure on his mouth. Higher thinking slips away, panic bubbles up and he thrashes—or tries to—against a vice grip that holds him still. He deflates, the burst of energy sapping his already-empty reserves.

"It's ok, kid," a voice above him soothes. Fingers card through his hair, soft, patient. "It's gonna be ok. Just drink."

 _Drink?_

It takes a moment for sensation to creep back in, ushering out the flight or fight instincts that had so assuredly masked most of his senses, but as he mulls over the stranger's words, he realizes that there is liquid sliding down his throat, waiting to be taken down.

He swallows.

And then—and _then._ The instant the liquid streams down his esophagus, rivulets warm, fireworks erupt within him. Nerve endings jangling with sight and sound and the warm caress of a lover touching the most intimate of places. He's on fire, flames licking hot but he never wants to be put out, because the agony so quickly melts into ecstasy. He whimpers when the wrist pressed to his mouth is suddenly absent, cool air settling over his mouth instead.

The noise earns a chuckle.

"Greedy."

With the wrist gone, his line of sight is clear. A man leans over him. Dirty-blonde, dark eyes with and lashes, a thin mouth. Shane takes in the details and finds the sum greater than the individual features; there's something about this stranger that draws him in, though he's not the most classically handsome man in the world. And then, as he gazes up, in the haze of ecstasy, the man's face changes. The eyes first, set alight by a silvery-blue color that builds to a glow—it's animal and _wrong,_ and at the same time, beautiful enough to stop his breath in its tracks. The man's face is paler now, angles sharper, and when opens his mouth to speak, Shane sees the tips of teeth that have no business being in a human mouth.

"My name is Vilem," the man says. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

Shane sees his own arm lifted before he feels it, has only a fleeting moment of soft-tipped, faraway worry before the man's teeth— _fangs_ , his mind whispers—break through the skin of his wrist to open the vein beneath.

The feeling of blood leaving his body should worry him, but each pull from his veins is soothing, pleasant in a drowsy kind of way, like laying outside in the setting sun. He doesn't feel it when the man removes his teeth, when once more, a wrist is placed over his mouth and he's given back everything that was taken.

The stark contrast of being held safely in sleep's cool grasp one moment to being excruciatingly _aware_ in the next is Shane's first clue that something has changed. He's not in his house; that much he knows. This space is quieter, the light he senses through his eyelids brighter. The blankets laid over him are softer, the pillow firmer. Nothing is the same as he knows.

"Welcome back," a soft voice says from the end of the bed.

"What the fuck, Shane? What are you talking about?" Ryan takes a step back, looking closer at Shane's eyes. Are they—are they fucking _glowing?_

 _Trick of the light_ , he reassures himself, though it's just one more strange thing he'll have to shake off later, something to add to a growing pile of 'The Universe Has Stopped Making Sense' moments.

Shane closes the space between them, though, a low rumble emanating from his chest. Ryan can feel it echoing through him, a sound so dark, so animalistic that he stops in his tracks. Something in the back of his mind urges him to move forward, to show his teeth and snap back at the sudden threat, but it's shot down by a ripple of fear and sadness that shoots through him. It's watered-down, though, like watching a movie character face tragedy. The feelings aren't _his_.

Shane claps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening. "I'm sorry," he says, words clipped oddly, mouth barely moving.

"It's ok," Ryan mutters, trying to sidestep Shane and just get to his desk so the voodoo fucking twilight zone beginning to his day can just be over. But faster than he can see, Shane mirrors his movement and blocks his path.

"Seriously, Shane, what the fuck are you—" he looks up to search out answers, to glean _some_ sort of reason for his friend's odd behavior, but the words die on his lips.

"Ryan," Shane starts, eyes shining (tears, oh god, why is Shane _crying?)_ "Do you trust me?"

"Shane, come on, man, what are you talking about?" Ryan's voice cracks. "What's wrong?"

"Please, Ryan." Shane's hands are on his shoulders now, gripping gentle but firm. His voice is smoother, barely a whisper. "Do you trust me?"

The words fly out of their own accord, tripping past his teeth before he can think them properly.

"Yes, man, of course." He swallows hard, throat like sandpaper. "But you're scaring me."

"I'm sorry," Shane's eyes soften. "But we gotta go. Right now, if you trust me, we have to leave."

"But—" Ryan's mind is running in circles, trying to find a reason why the other man could be acting this way. "Bro, what about work?" The excuse is flimsy. He can feel himself giving in already.

Shane seems to breathe out for the first time since he saw Ryan today.

"Don't worry about it. I'll tell them we're scouting locations. Or something." He glances at Ryan's hands. "Where'd you park?"

"I—I didn't. I took an uber today." Under Shane's unblinking gaze, the truth comes out. "Something happened this morning, or last night—I—I felt really strange when I woke up."

He gets a curt nod for the confession, then a gentle spin around, and together, they're walking out the way he just came in.

"Shane," he breathes as they get into the elevator, doors closing with a cheerful ding that does nothing to break the tension of the moment. He's shaking, tremors running through his fingers, down the length of his legs. "What's going on?"

"We'll talk when we get to your place," Shane promises. The words are stiff, but the taller man reaches for his hand, frowns when he feels the vibrations there, but gives it a squeeze before dropping it in favor of leading Ryan by the elbow to his car.

"I can walk," he snarks, feet oh-so-unsure as he clambers into the passenger seat.

"I know," Shane replies, a small smile twisting his lips. There's no humor there, though, and they both fall quiet for the duration of the ride.

The silence that fell like a curtain in the car, thick and heavy between them, lingers as they walk up the stairs to Ryan's apartment. He fumbles with the keys, hands barely able to force the metal into the lock and twist so the pins align. Finally, on the third try, the door sighs defeat and swings open and allows him to all but spill into the entryway.

Shane sniffs loudly as he enters, a step behind Ryan, before gazing at him sharply, then toward the bathroom. He's headed that way before Ryan can stop him, throwing open the door, immediately sure of what he's after, like a bloodhound on a scent trail. He lifts the towel gently, Ryan standing behind him, and then both of them are gazing at the dried blood on the floor.

"Shane," he says, thickly, "I don't know what happened. I woke up, and there was blood everywhere, but I wasn't hurt—"

Shane turns toward him, eyes lowered.

"Ryan."

Why isn't Shane looking at him?

"I'm going to tell you something," Shane says, still avoiding Ryan's eyes, "And please, please don't be afraid, ok?"

"Shane, what are you talking about?"

But Shane doesn't have to say anything to explain. All he has to do is look up. Still holding the bloodied, crumpled-up towel in his hands, gripping it like a buoy in open water, he meets Ryan's gaze.

Where usually dark eyes would be, Shane's irises have taken on an almost phosphorescent blue glow. They look even more unnatural in the soft darkness of the bathroom, like a glimpse of a monster in the dark of a horror movie. But what freezes the blood in his veins, stiffening legs and arms so both flight and fight are now out of the question, are Shane's teeth. The two sets of teeth adjacent to the front are suddenly impossibly long and deadly-looking sharp.

"No," Ryan stutters out an aborted little laugh, like Shane's going to pull those really fucking realistic fangs out and yell 'Gotcha!' But the look in the other man's eyes is deadly serious, and the realization that this is _not a fucking joke_ sends all the air out of the room.

"No," he says again. "No fucking way."


	3. Chapter 3

Ryan takes a step back from Shane, shoulder meeting the edge of the bathroom door with a hard crack. He stumbles back, then loses his balance completely as Shane surges toward him, hands outstretched.

"No," he bites out as he hits the floor and scrabbles back, legs pumping furiously to slide his body as far away from the other man as he can. "Stay back."

Shane nods, slowly, the blue light bleeding from his eyes so all that's left is the darkness Ryan is used to. The familiarity would be nice, except now he knows what's hiding just under the facade.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Shane says, quietly. His words lack any inflection; he stares at Ryan blankly, like the muscles in his face have forgotten how to move.

"Sure," He snaps, teeth gritting. There's a niggling at the back of his brain, stuck down deep like a popcorn kernel lodged between molars, and it's radiating things he doesn't understand. It's urging him to go _to_ Shane, to chase away the feelings of guilt and shame and sadness that surround the man like an aura, curled in close. And that pisses him off. Because, while Ryan has always been empathetic, easily able to discern the moods and emotions of others, there is no way he should be _certain_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt, how Shane is feeling. He shouldn't be able to taste Shane's desperation, thick and acrid, on his tongue. Something is very, very wrong. Aside from the fact that his best friend is something that goes bump in the night.

"What are you?" He asks, pointedly avoiding the other man's eyes. He stares at his shoes instead, and Shane's legs, which are framed by the empty space of the bathroom behind him.

"The eyes and fangs didn't give it away?" The response is so very Shane, but without a heavy layer of sarcasm coating the words, they're open. Vulnerable. He can almost hear Shane begging him: _Don't make me say it._

"I wanna hear it from you," he mutters.

Shane's legs shift so he's out of the doorway. He leans on the wall and lets it guide him down. He presses his hands to his face, bracing his elbows on his legs.

"Vampire," he says, the word muffled as it flits through his fingers. "I'm a vampire."

"Mmm," Ryan hums. It hangs in the air between them, the label. The truth has been named and now it's tangible, unable to be ignored. It's real, now.

"How long?"

"About two years. Just before I started working at Buzzfeed."

"Two years," Ryan mutters. Then, louder, betrayal flaring hot around the words. "Two fucking years?!"

Shane winces, mouth open, like he's ready to explain, to rationalize, but Ryan beats him to the punch.

"You let me make a fool of myself in front of you," Now his voice is flat, syllables deflated with calm realization. "You made me feel like an idiot for believing in ghosts and demons when you were sitting right in front of me. A fucking vampire."

"Ryan, I—"

"No, Shane, it's my turn to talk right now." He clears his throat, eyes hot. "Did you think it was funny? Did you like seeing me scared? Why didn't you just fucking tell me?" He grips the sides of his head, fingers grasping at his hair. "You know, I thought we were friends. I knew you could be a douchebag, but I thought you cared."

Shane looks up from his hands. "We are, Ryan. I never argued with you to make you feel like an idiot. I was never laughing at you about it."

"Then fuck, man—why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

"Because," the word catches in Shane's throat, comes out thick. "I didn't want you to look at me like you are right now."

"What," His words are icy now, pointed. Waiting to cut. "Like my best friend turned out to be a monster?"

"Yeah," Shane says. "Something like that."

"You need to go," he hears himself saying, and Shane's face flickers, hesitation drawing across his brow. "Please. Get out."

"I will," Shane says, "But there's something else. And I have to tell you _now._ And then I'll go."

"What else could there possibly be?" Ryan's temples start to pound beneath his fingers. He is on a tight wire, feet grasping to hold on, because while the world he knows and understands might be falling down around him, he's not about to let it take him with it.

Shane stares into space, eyes glazed, and begins to speak.

"Vampire blood has healing properties."

"So?"

"So, for the past week, I've been giving you my blood." Shane scrubs a hand across his face, and Ryan's heart stutters in his chest.

"You gave me—you've been feeding me your _blood?"_

"Ryan," Shane's looking at him now, eyes wet, imploring. "You were _sick_."

"So?" He's not sure how he gets to his feet so fast, but all at once he's pacing, moving out of the dam of realization that's about to wash over him, ready to drag him under. "Tell me to go to a fucking _doctor_ if I'm sick."

Shane barks a laugh. "Yeah, Ryan. I'm sure if I walked up to you and said, 'Hey, buddy, now I don't want to scare you, but I can smell something really wrong inside of you. How bout you go see a medical professional and get that taken care of,' you'd have been real receptive to it." He shakes his head. "I—I just wanted you to be ok."

"And now? If your magical blood is so wonderful, why are you even telling me any of this?"

"Because," Shane says, "Whatever happened to you last night was fatal."

"What the fuck are you talking about, fatal? I'm obviously not dead." Ryan's words waver toward the end. This is too much. This is too big. He breathes faster now, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"If you die with vampire blood in your system, you start to turn. This morning, when you came in—I'm the one who gave you blood, so there's a connection and I—Ryan I _felt_ you."

Maybe Shane keeps talking, but all Ryan can hear is the pound of blood rushing in his head, and his own gasps, because, suddenly, his lungs have decided to stop working, There isn't enough _air—_ he gasps for it, but it's not coming quick enough. Black spots begin to swarm over his vision, bleeding into one another.

Then there's an arm wrapped around his middle, and a voice close to his ear. His hand is drawn out, flattened on Shane's chest and the other man is telling him to focus on his heart beat, to breathe with it _in, out_ , _there you go, you're doing great._

Shane's voice has taken on a depth Ryan doesn't understand. It's a hum of energy under ordinary syllables, a crackle of power that implores him to listen. Almost without his permission, his heart rate slows. His body quakes, but feeling is coming back into his fingers.

"You're going to start changing," Shane whispers, Ryan's hand still clutching at his shirt. "But you won't completely transition until we exchange blood."

"How long?" His voice comes out a stiff croak.

"A few days, I think, before your body starts trying to fight off the chan—my blood. Please. Ryan, let me help you, ok? It's not bad. It doesn't have to be bad."

Ryan lets go of Shane's shirt, his hand curling into his own lap.

"Help?" His mouth stretches into a smile, the baring of teeth before an attack.

"Don't you think you've done enough?" He shakes his head in disbelief.

"God, and I thought I—you know what? Get out." The words fall heavy between them.

This time, Shane listens. He unfolds himself from around Ryan and stands, though he pauses, just for a moment, and turns back.

"Go." Ryan doesn't bother to look up.

Shane does.

It takes Ryan twenty minutes to get off the floor. He can't give in to the press of his mind as it threatens to spin out, losing traction with the world in the face of what's happening. What he's found out. What he's becoming. What _is_ he becoming?

 _No,_ he warns himself, almost content enough to sit back down, to stagnate until he wakes up from this nightmare. But his throat is dry ( _thirsty),_ so he walks on stiff legs to the kitchen. He fills a glass with water, lingers at the sink for a moment, letting the morning sun that filters through the window shine easily on his skin, its warmth a comfort in the stark quiet of his empty apartment. He closes his eyes.

 _Sunlight._

A jolt of deja vu moves through him like lightning. The glass slips out of his hand, shattering into crystalline shards in the sink, but its demise falls on deaf ears. He grips the edges of the counter for dear life as he's left blind to the real world, a movie projector-like reel loading behind his eyes, forcing images through his brain that take a hazy shape before solidifying.

It's a familiar scene.

 _The wood is firm against his back, but he doesn't mind. His muscles relax against it, arms and legs sprawled, evenly collecting the heat of the midday sun. His eyes are closed and he drowses, caught somewhere between vague awareness of his surroundings and the surrender of his conscious mind entirely. Time doesn't exist in this state as long as nothing interrupts him, forcing him out of this quiet, pleasant haze._

 _The metallic clang of the office door opening, as if reading his mind, almost makes him groan in protest. Five more minutes, that's all he asks. He opens his eyes, but the sun is bright, and he's left blinking at the vague person-shaped shadow that's decided to join him._

Hey, Ryan. _He hears. Shane. He drops his head back down, closes his eyes. He doesn't really care if his friend sees him napping._

Hey, Shane. Are you going to be a weirdo and watch me sleep?

 _He gets a chuckle in response, though it cuts off quickly. Strained, almost._

Not my kink, Bergara.

 _Ryan smiles into the sun when he feels the light pressure of Shane's hand on his wrist. It's tentative, barely resting there, so he forces himself not to react._

If something happened to you—I—I just want you to be ok. _Shane says. There's shade on Ryan's face now, so the other man must be leaning in a little bit. Ryan opens his eyes._

I'm ok, Shane, _he replies, searching his friend's features for some kind of meaning behind this sudden sentiment. But most of his face is obscured, shadowed. His eyes strain, and he moves to sit up so they can speak properly._

Lay back down, _Shane says, but it's soft, silky, nothing like his usual blunt tones. There's energy in the words, a power that commands Ryan to listen. And why wouldn't he? It feels good to give in._

I'm so sorry, man.

 _Ryan hears him, vaguely, but it's just a string of syllables he pays no attention to._

I wish I could just tell you the truth. But I'm a fucking coward, Ryan. And I'm sorry.

 _Then, the soft sound of snapping, a puncture, maybe, and skin is pressed to skin, wrist to lips. One to give and the other to take. Ryan's almost pulled out of his stupor at this, the hot flood of liquid against his mouth, ordering him to open up._

Easy, Ryan. Drink. _There's the power again, the twist of sounds that come together to guide his thoughts and actions, easy as a marionette._

 _He listens, mouth opening, warmth streaming down. It's the crisp chill of a first snow, but it overtakes him like the flames of a bonfire. He is everywhere and nowhere at once, senses open but only able to appreciate each drop as it eases down his throat._

 _And then it goes away._

Good, Ryan. You did good.

 _If he did well, why does Shane sound so sad?_

Now, buddy, _the fingers around his wrist squeeze once, thumb rubbing back and forth before abandoning the skin there,_ Now you have to forget. I was never out here with you today. You haven't seen me since earlier this morning, ok?

Yeah, Shane. Earlier.

 _And then he's alone again. Again? No, just alone, in the courtyard. He should go in soon. The sound of the door again—again? What?—jolts him out of his peace, and he vaults up from the table, looking at Freddie, who stands in the doorway._

Have you seen Shane? _She asks._

No, _he replies, the taste of metal on his tongue._

The images, the _memory_ , flickers away, leaving Ryan clear-eyed and level. He looks down. His knuckles are white. When he lets go of the sink, careful of the glittering shards, some in invisible pieces, his fingers ache.

The first question Shane manages to ask is 'why.' It comes after an hour he shudders to remember, the first waking breaths that bring with them light, and sound, and sensation. All work together, an army made to overwhelm him to the point of insanity. The sun pierces his eyes, the cloth beneath him—his own clothes—rub raw against his skin like sandpaper. And though the man—Vilem, was it?—speaks in whispers, the echoes of his voice have Shane shoving fingers in his ears deep enough to touch the aching drums.

"Stop fighting it," Vilem says, so close to Shane. He can hear the concern radiating off the other man, can _feel_ it trying to dig through his skin. "The sooner you accept the changes, the quicker your body will adapt."

"Changes?" he breathes, grimacing, eyes squeezing shut to push out a wash of reflexive tears, his pain in tangible form.

"Yes." A hand lands gently on his back and he screams at the jagged scrape of nerve reaction it brings. "You're different now. Focus on my voice first. Get that under control."

"Different?" Shane's swimming in sensation, mind fighting for normalcy. The fight rages through him, a war between the new reality that's settled in his bones and the one that was ripped from him last night.

"Yes, different. Come one, kid, I know you're smart. Conversation's going to get boring if you keep parroting everything I say." The tone is teasing.

The more Vilem speaks, the more Shane can focus on the sounds, the pitch, then the meaning.

"There you go." The hand keeps rubbing his back, and Shane flickers into the past for a moment, his mother's hands, smaller, fine-boned, doing the same thing to him when he had a fever.

"She seems lovely," Vilem hums, like an afterthought. "Open your eyes."

"You can—you saw?" Stuttered, abortive sounds manage to push past his teeth, still too-loud in his ears. Vilem apparently picks up what he's putting down, though, because he gets an affirmative little 'mmh.'

"Vampires—"

Shane's eyes shoot open at the word. He wants, with his whole entirety, to pretend that the man didn't just use that word, that there's a logical explanation for the what's happening to him. That the man who, it's becoming increasingly clear, can _pick up on his thoughts,_ is a very caring crazy person that just wants to make sure Shane's ok after having been attacked.

As soon as his eyes focus, though, the delusions he would've been happy to let soak through him, absorbing until they're almost the truth, wash away like the tide pulling back from the beach. He sees _everything._ Every pore on Vilem's face, though there's an odd smoothness to the other man's skin, a slight glow that looks _too_ perfect, a shine to brown eyes that are not a solid color, but a patchwork of honey and russet and even some green scattered within.

Shane shouldn't be able to see the individual lines in the wood paneling of the wall at least ten feet behind Vilem, but they're there, clear as day. The other man waits as Shane's gaze travels over the room, new eyes like taking a magnifying glass to each detail; the utilitarian furniture, the clean lines and open spaces.

"We all have our own gifts, Shane. Mine have to do with seeing past what people would like me to see."

Shane drags his focus back to Vilem. "So—" Voice thick, trying to beat back the panic of this all being real and true and so fucking overwhelming that he could start screaming and maybe not stop, he clears his throat once, twice. It burns a little, the back of it protesting as he swallows. _Breathe._

"Why?"

Vilem quirks an eyebrow at him. "Why, what? Why do vampires exist?"

"No," Shane shifts, winces as his skin burns with the rub of his clothes. He grits his teeth, ignores it moves to sit. Vilem, suddenly much closer, presses a hand to his lower back and eases him up, until they're eye-to-eye.

"Fuck," he whispers, sucking air through his teeth and ignoring touch he would usually shy away from. The contact—it feels _right_ , even though the other man is basically a stranger. "You move fast. I mean...why? Why did you help me?"

"I happened to be in the right place at the right time," Vilem cocks his head to the side, appraising. "And letting a good kid bleed out in an alley doesn't sit right with me."

Shane's face warms. "I—You didn't have to do that." He's hesitant, but he reaches out anyway to grasp the other man's shoulder, to squeeze it and try to show what his words can't quite convey. His cheeks get hotter, the innocence of platonic intimacy settling uneasily in his stomach. When he touches other men, it's usually laced with flirtation—the hint of something more to come. But in trying to show his gratitude, he feels wrong, _strange,_ like he doesn't know what to do with his limbs, or where to look to play his feelings off, to get rid of the glaring vulnerability so obviously on display.

He doesn't expect to get pulled into a hug. Vilem's heart beats against his chest and for a fraction of a second, the surprise he feels almost melts into a relieved sob. The stories he grew up with about vampires always had them painted as dead things, leeches, and maybe some of it is true, but when he feels the pound of his own heartbeat, it assures him that maybe he hasn't lost all of his humanity.

Shane can't go home. Not at first. He wants to argue, but as his emotions rise high enough to choke him, he loses the tenuous control over his senses and begins to hear the faint, rhythmic beating of countless drums. They surround him, getting louder and louder until he's on the floor, back pushed up against Vilem's bed, covering his ears to make it all just go away.

The other man kneels in front of him. He knows how he must look, mussed hair and wild eyes.

"Are those—am I hearing—" He doesn't want to say it, because then he'd have to admit the draw that lays beneath the pounding echoing in his ears. It's a siren's song, and it's proving Vilem right.

"Heartbeats. Yes."

"I have to call my roommate," he mutters.

Mark is angry when he answers the phone. Shane's been missing for a day. What he thought was last night was actually two days ago.

"I'd have called your fucking parents if I had the number," his voice grits through the receiver. Shane's voice cracks when he answers, apologizes, and makes up a family emergency that happened suddenly, that will keep him away for however long it takes to be resolved. Mark takes him at his word; if he's suspicious, he doesn't say anything. Just that he'll be there when Shane gets home.

And then they hang up, and Shane is left alone on a path that has taken a sharp turn away from what his life was meant to be.

"You have to eat."

Shane sits boneless on the leather couch in Vilem's living room. It's brown, the material supple, smooth under his skin. No rough fibers to scratch him here. He rubs the arm of it idly, trying to find the energy to look at Vilem.

"It doesn't work. Did I—could you have made a mistake? Maybe I didn't change all the way?"

Even as he says it, he knows the words aren't true. He can _smell_ the blood in the other man's veins, the hum as it runs through, old and powerful. He can sense that now too, the crackle of power that surrounds Vilem. His maker. His nose crinkles, lip rising at the word. It sits dramatic in his mind, something out of a gothic romance he has no business being a part of.

"No, Shane. You're just a stubborn little shit, and your brain is getting in the way of your instinct."

"Gee, thanks, Dad." Maybe the sarcasm is uncalled for, but his throat is so _dry_ now that it's sending a radiating ache through the rest of his body.

Vilem's wrist appears unceremoniously underneath his nose.

"Breathe," he's told. "You can do this."

But he _can't._ Because even if his body is desperate for the blood in the other man's veins, his logic, his higher mind is saying that this _isn't real_. His jaw aches, hot pulses on his upper gums, but even as he tongues at his canines, they remain dull. Human.

"Jesus, fuck," he snarls, pushing the wrist away. "I can't fucking do it, ok?"

"Ok." Vilem sits next to him, close.

"Then let me tell you what's going to happen."

Shane lets his head fall back, listening but not acknowledging.

"The pain that you feel now? That _I_ feel, echoing in the back of my head?" A tap on his skull, fingers at the base of his neck punctuate the other man's speech. They're cool against his heated skin.

"It's going to get worse and worse, until that logical part of your brain—the one that's telling you that I'm crazy, that this can't be happening—it's going to shut down. What do you think's going to happen then?"

He doesn't wait for Shane to answer.

"That's when you become the monster you're convinced you already are."

Vilem's hand, still on his neck, turns so Shane can see the glide of silver as it replaces brown, can witness the deadly beauty of teeth sharpening to fine points.

"There is a difference between a predator and a monster," Vilem whispers. "And when you lose control of yourself and murder an innocent person because you couldn't just listen to me and _try,_ that's when I'll put you down myself."

Tremors run through Shane's body. He doesn't want this, doesn't want any of it, but he will _not_ hurt someone for the sake of his own stubborn pride. There is no give to the steel in Vilem's threat. If Shane won't adapt, he won't get a second chance.

"Don't let me down," he hears, but he's distracted by skin so close to his again, the long forearm he grasps with both hands, maybe a little too tightly. He noses at it, finding the tangle of blue-tinged veins that converge at the base of the hand, waiting for his bite. His jaw hurts again, but now it's different, pressure building before a fleeting gasp of pain and then a sigh of relief. Before he knows what exactly he's doing, he's teeth-deep into Vilem's wrist, fangs— _fangs—_ breaking through the surface. He retracts them just as quickly, latches on and stays there, drawing in a fount that cools his throat and eases the ache of his body with every swallow.

"Enough, now."

Shane means to draw away entirely, but as he pulls back, he stops, tongue rasping over the mark he'd left behind, watching at the holes close up and disappear before he finally lets it drop.

It takes three weeks to be allowed back into society. Three weeks of supervision, of learning how to go to bars and clubs and take small sips from anonymous donors who think they've had a rather adventurous make out session (with hickeys to prove it). Three weeks to figure out how to pretend to be the person, the _human_ he used to be. Vilem is there, he knows, sometimes without telling him. He feels the other man's presence brushing over his mind, checking in on him. Shane keeps his mind blank and tries not to let on that he knows.

It's wobbly at first, living a lie. Like learning how to ride a bike, constantly re-balancing so he doesn't slip up, doesn't hint at what he's become. A month passes, and he gets an interview. An internet media company. Like a mask, he slips back into the old Shane, the charmer, the easy talker. It's comfortable, idly chatting with his interviewer about his hopes and career plans like he can't hear the thrum of her heart beating, see it in the juncture of her neck.

He gets the job.

The interns are split into groups, divided by their strengths, and work under the producers until they can go up in rank. There's three or four people in his section, but it's the man with dark hair and eyes and a white, crooked smile that catches his eye.

"Hey," the guy says, extending his hand. "I'm Ryan."


	4. Chapter 4

*12 Hours*

There's a pounding at Ryan's temples that matches the beat of his heart. It's grown slowly through the day, pulsing through into excruciating as the hours of the night pass. He's slept on-and-off, watched his phone, waiting for a call from work...or someone else. But no one texts, except TJ, asking if they have whereabouts for the next location shoot. He dismisses it, the tones of his keypad ringing in his ears.

Every time he thinks about it, stops for a moment, his body feels different. Strange. He's always been at home in his body; even before, when he was skinnier than strong, it was an extension of himself. But now he feels a shift, an unfamiliarity that's settled just under his skin.

He can't bring himself to say it yet, can't repeat what Shane admitted to him. The confession Ryan had forced out of him. But wants to know what's happening, how his cells are coming apart and then back together under the influence of Shane's otherness. Too bad he'd chased the other man away, spit poisonous, barbed words at him and ushered him out.

He presses the heel of his hands into his eyes, sighing when the pressure of his head is relieved, if just for a moment.

Ryan remembers meeting Shane. The exact moment. They were the production assistants who had backgrounds in editing, so they were corralled off into a team together. His first day, he'd turned around and seen the big oaf, looking so at ease in this new environment, a hive of activity surrounding them. He'd been all sleepy eyes and easy words, taking Ryan's hand firmly into his own. He remembers holding it out, smiling at the other man and hoping that they'd work together, because something just seemed to click in that first instant, a rapport that fit like a puzzle without either having to do much.

"I'm Shane," the other man had said, down-turned eyes crinkled up for a moment, a smile stretching his thin mouth. _Genuine._ Something warm had settled in Ryan's stomach then, and he's sure he smiled even brighter, mouth crooked as ever. Teeth just a little too big. It was his tell, that stupid smile. But Shane hadn't said anything, had let his hand go (after holding a beat too long, maybe?), and they'd continued the team orientation together, exchanging looks and jokes so comfortably that others had asked, later, if they'd known each other prior.

When Shane took over for Brent on Unsolved, Ryan stopped panicking about the future of the show. It was no longer him up against a brick wall of _you're a fucking idiot, Ryan, and nothing you say is real;_ no. Not that Shane believed him any more about ghosts and demons than his previous co-host. But they were in on the joke _together._ Shane wasn't laughing at him so much as teasing his fears and laughing _with_ his fear afterwards. He entertained theories, brought his own in and was never afraid to look stupid doing so. It was refreshing. And the fans of the show thought so too.

He understands Shane in the Sallie House, now. It was one of their newer episodes, the longest to date. The end of a trek through one country and into the next (and a fuck ton of spiders to boot). They'd been tired, by the end, but on the approach to the house, Ryan had been shaky, restless energy spurring his limbs into constant motion. Shane had been casual as a rumpled shirt, sleeping on the way there, snap-chatting as they waited to enter a house with energy thick as butter, settling down heavy like grease over skin. Ryan can admit that he was skittish, and now he sees that the only thing holding him together, the only thing keeping all the pieces of his body from flinging apart to opposite ends of the earth, was distraction. Shane's distraction. His wild voice and maniacal taunts, threatening demons and spirits alike. When he'd lain on the pentagram, arms open to be taken, it was because he knew that Ryan's disbelief of his actions was enough to keep him from passing out in fear. And maybe, just maybe, Shane thought he was the scariest thing in the house.

The thought is like fingers down Ryan's spine, but also a bloom of warmth at the bottom of his stomach. Fuck. He shifts on the bed where he's splayed out. He keeps his movements short, trying not to expend to much energy. To keep from stressing out already collapsing cells. He closes his eyes and hopes for sleep.

*20 Hours*

Ryan is good at keeping other people's secrets. He can take them tight-lipped to the grave. But his inside thoughts never fully stay that way for long, if they're about him. He needs a sounding board, another mind to mince through ideas and hopes and feelings without getting lost in the details. Half of it is just hearing his own voice, out loud, letting thoughts flow. But when he slips out of the meditative state he's been hibernating in, jaw on fire like a line of red ants crawling up and down the bone and through all the spaces in his teeth, he's halfway to pressing the 'send' button on his phone, bringing up a number it's dialed hundreds of times, before he realizes he can't go through with it.

The contact 'Shane,' stares back at him, the illumination of the phone reflecting thin light at him, glaring through the morning dark. The name mocks him, reminds him of all the advice sought after, given and received by this very number.

He can't bring himself to call.

"Fuck," he whispers to himself, fingers shaking as he dials the one other person who might not hang up on him at this time of day. He holds his breath as it rings, not sure if he's hoping for the person on the other side of the line to pick up or ignore the call.

"Good morning, Boogara. Long time no talk."

Ryan rolls his eyes at the nickname, part and parcel of the _Unsolved_ banter, but a smile curls at the corner of his mouth. It brings with it a sharp flicker of pain, and he gasps quietly. Or so he thought.

"Ryan, you ok?" The voice drops the warmth of its teasing, pitches up. It's loud in his ears.

"Yeah, Curl," he says, keeping his voice even. "You sound...awake."

"I'm on my way home," Curly replies, satisfaction like the swish of a cat's tail across an ankle clear in his voice.

"Just like in college," Ryan says, a huffed chuckle softening the words. "You haven't changed, man." He thinks back to all the times his roommate had come in as Ryan was waking, sober as a judge, laughter in his eyes. Always ready to regale Ryan with the adventures of the night.

"I mean, I'm a classic."

"That you are, man." He pauses, unsure of how to continue, to lead into a conversation that has him questioning his own sanity.

"So what's up, Ryan? How've you been?"

"I'm...good."

"And I'm good at spotting bullshit, cariño. What's going on?"

"I have," he sighs, willing the words to come out as he scrubs a hand through his hair. "I have a hypothetical situation for you."

"Oooh," Curly stretches the word like bubblegum, and Ryan pictures him, leaning in to gossip. "You know I love me some hypotheticals. Are you writing fanfiction? If you use my idea, I'm in for a cut of the royalties, babe."

Ryan can't help but chuckle, though it jangles through his skin angrily. "You got it."

"Lay it on me."

"So imagine that you didn't know it, but you were really sick, and someone was trying to save your life."

"Oooh, the makings of a good telanovela. Would you survive without their interference?"

"I dunno—" Ryan's distracted for a moment, a lightning-strike of realization hovering over this thoughts, but it's gone as he replies. "I don't think so."

"Ok, so DOA without the person helping. Check."

"But when they try to help, instead of you going back to like, normalcy, you end up entirely different. Changed."

"Like, loss of limbs?" Intrigue sparks Curly's curiosity, Ryan can tell. He's grateful to have someone who really _listens_ like this, then guilty for never reaching out to his friends the way he used to.

"No no," he shakes his head, picking at dry skin on his knee. It flakes away, leaving new cells behind, smooth. Perfect.

"Like, you could do everything you could before, but you're not the same. Like, better senses."

"Dude, how is that a bad thing? A secret mutant friend saves your life and turns you into a super hero too? Sounds like a Marvel movie."

"But like, what about the secret? Lying to you, pretending they're something they're not the whole time?"

"I dunno man, better alive and slightly different than dead, right? Besides, I can see not wanting people to look at you like you're a freak all the time."

Ryan catches the wistful knowing in the statement.

"Hey man," he begins, tripping over the _I'm sorry I haven't stayed in touch,_ and _people stare because they wish they could express themselves like you do,_ because he doesn't know how to say either of them without leaving himself too open. He's sick of himself, then, and his inability to do _anything_ for fear of being seen as human ( _not anymore)_ or needy, or emotional.

God, just fuck it. Fuck it all.  
"You're amazing, Curly. And fuck anyone who looks at you like that." He surprises himself, but as the words taste air and hit the receiver, he feels lighter.

"Thanks, man," Curly says. Ryan can hear his smile. "So, did I help your hypothetical?"

"Hmm?" Ryan starts, reality settling back in, quietly. "Yeah. Thanks, man."

"Anytime, boo. Let's get lunch soon, ok?"

"Sounds good."

When they hang up, Curly's voice echoes in his ears, over and over like a trap waiting to be sprung.

 _Better alive and different than dead..._

And then, Shane.

"Whatever happened to you last night...it was fatal."

If Shane hadn't been dosing him with his blood, trying to fight off whatever illness he sensed crawling in on the edges, worming its way through Ryan's blood and body, he'd be dead. Whether he'd had an aneurysm or a stroke, or just gotten dizzy and fallen down hard enough to bash his head open on the tub, he'd _died._ And without his best friend, he wouldn't have come back.

The image of death in its finality creeps in, the horror of his parents coming to check on him and finding, shower still on and pounding an ominous beat, his body in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. He sees his mother, with the eyes she gave him, crumple towards his body before being caught by his father, steeled in his shock.

If not for Shane, he would be gone.

Nausea circles up from his stomach in a slick, greasy wave, clawing at the back of his throat. His body aches in protest, but he flings away the sheets tangled around his legs and staggers up. It's not that far to the bathroom, a few hurried slaps of bare feet on a fake wood floor, and he manages to vomit mostly into the bowl. He hasn't eaten much in the past few days, but it seems that everything that can leave him does, burning like Drano on the way out. He gags and spits the last of it up, pushing himself back to brace on the wall behind him as he gasps for air. It's sweet, cooling as he gorges himself like a runner after a 500 meter sprint. If he ignores the ominous dark color that remains in the bowl, well, that's between himself and his reflection in the mirror, an image he takes in as he flushes the sick down and turns on the tap to rinse out his mouth.

He's been avoiding the mirror since the morning after the—the what, the accident? His _death?_ And now the face staring back at him isn't quite his. He's drawn, pale, circles under his eyes like he got into a fight and the skin is waxy.

 _Even if I didn't die a few days ago,_ he thinks, a harsh, choking laugh coming out that melts into a sob, _I look like I did._

His teeth flash white under the warm light of the bathroom, and cool numbness washes over him, the kind just before panic's icy grip latches on. So when he hikes up his lip to examine his teeth and see that no, it's not a trick of the light, that the two sets of teeth closest to the front are longer now, and most certainly _sharper,_ it's with the detached fascination of a scientist staring at a lab rat.

His cell phone, when he makes it back to his room, having turned away from the ghost of his reflection, sits forgotten on the bed. He types out a message, and sends it to Shane.

 _I need help. Please come back._

Shane is not a creep. Or a stalker. The reason he's spent at least 20 hours camped out in a car in Ryan's parking garage is because he can't leave. He won't. Not like this. He listened to his friend when he was ordered out of the apartment, branded a monster and banished, but Ryan's still there, in the back of his mind. His fear, his pain. The occasional moment of relief when, Shane supposes, he's managed to fall into fitful sleep. But no, Shane will not leave Ryan when he's needed the most. Ryan's going to text, or call, and beckon him back, he's sure.

 _Maybe when you have kids one day you'll understand,_ Vilem had said, years ago when Shane had confronted him about the constant babysitting, the being just out of Shane's line of sight, though always there.

 _Doubt it,_ Shane had retorted, derision reading loud and clear. _I don't think I'll feel the need to add to the emo night squad anytime soon._

Vilem's going to make him eat his words.

Shane's at the bar across the street from Ryan's house when his cell vibrates. Or, he's behind the bar, in the alley, his teeth in the neck of an anonymous girl who'd been coming on to him, hard. He'd gently influenced her to follow him outside, looked into her eyes for a moment, long enough so that a question formed in their grey depths before he reached out a little further, told her to _relax, everything's going to be alright,_ before pushing her long hair back. It's blonde, streaked naturally by the sun, and it feels wrong between his fingers, less of a contrast than he'd like.

He leans in, her neck fragrant with jasmine and warm vanilla. Safe, feminine. Soft. Everything about her, the lines of her body and the arch of her back, the curve of her hips. It's all so soft. Breakable. He can't help but wonder, as he pulls her in closer, shoulders narrow in the reach of his hands, what it would feel like with someone broader. More muscular.

He knows he'll be sweet before he bites, and while it makes the animal part of him sigh in relief, need stretched just a bit too thin, it doesn't satisfy his _taste._ He wants darker, richer—and she's like drinking chocolate in the dead heat of summer, coating his throat, thick and cloying. But inside, he's purring because base needs are met, so he counts his swallows and licks the would away before looking at her and giving a reasonable story.

 _I'm not the guy for you,_ he says, power lining every word he pours over her. _But we had fun, and we kissed in this alley, nothing more. You're ok with it because you know you deserve better. Go inside, now._

She smiles at him, eyes clearing of the haze that rolls through a sky before a storm.

"Bye Sean," she says, not glancing at him again as she turns away. He doesn't bother to correct her.

His pocket buzzes. He checks the phone distractedly, already heading back toward Ryan's apartment.

Speak of the devil.

 _I need help. Please come back._

The door opens in front of Shane before he has to knock. With space between them, Shane's senses had a limit to their scope; he had a vague impression of base emotion, watered down like the smell of perfume sprayed hours ago. But now, door open and only air between them, a connection opens up and a shock of _Ryan_ washes over him. Fear and guilt and hope and shame; Shane's dizzy with the kaleidoscope of emotion pouring off of the other man. He breathes in reflexively, noting that the sweet smell of decay no longer wafts freely, covering the scent of his friend. Instead of cells giving over to poison, he smells the ocean, and sun-warmed fruit. And himself. It's subtle, but there, the woodsy night-air of his own pheromones, just underneath Ryan's.

"Did you sleep in your car?" Ryan's eyes are narrowed, taking in the wrinkle of the same shirt he wore yesterday, the rumpled state of his hair. Shane's a fool if he thought the other man would overlook those details, even now.

"Didn't sleep," he mutters, giving his friend the same once-over he'd received. Ryan remains in front of the door, clothes hanging off him like he's lost twenty pounds in a day. His eyes look sunk into his skull, shadows creeping out from underneath, dark to the point of bruising. His skin is sallow, a pale yellow-tinge taking the place of its usual warmer gold. His eyes, though, still glitter with the same shrewd perception he's always had, like he's wading through a thousand thoughts, all while looking at Shane.

"Can I come in?" Shane whispers, not quite able to take his eyes off Ryan. At the waste he's caused.

"Do you need an invitation?" Ryan's voice is soft, rough. Like it hurts him to speak.

"No," he says. "But I'd like your permission."

There's a shift in Ryan's eyes then, like a flicker of light, and then the door's opening wider and he's granted access. He slides past Ryan's body, careful not to bump or jostle him. Pain radiates through their connection, muted, but unmistakable in the intensity Ryan must feel.

As he shuffles sideways into the apartment, though, hands fist into his shirt, and suddenly there's a cheek pressed against his chest.

"Why do I feel _better_ now?" The voice is muffled, breath warm on his chest. He kicks the door closed lightly, not wanting to push the other man away, instead wrapping his hands hesitantly around his back, gentle, touch light as he can bear it to be. He doesn't want to hurt. He doesn't know how to answer, though he knows the truth. But it's fucking _big_ , and strange, and more than a human's mind might be able to take at the moment.

But Ryan is ever the believer. And Shane hopes beyond hope that he can take this information, too.

"I'm like," he starts, the words burying themselves in Ryan's shoulder, where he's tucked his chin. It's hard, muscular, but it fits. "Your body know me. And because I'm the reason you're turning, there's a connection between us. I think—I mean, I'm new here too, Ryan," the confession brings with a crack in the soft lull of his voice. His throat feels thick, hard to talk through. "I think your body's responding to the bond between us."

"Fuckin' newbie vamp turning me," Ryan sighs, and Shane's heart stutters in his chest. Ryan said _turning_.

"Just my luck."


	5. Chapter 5

Shane's shirt is soft under Ryan's cheek. The fabric is worn, one of the more well-loved flannels in his friend's collection, especially as the 'winter' months of California had rolled in. Shane is warm comfort. The rise and fall of his chest, the soft echo of his heart. Ryan shouldn't be able to hear it as clearly as he does in this moment, but the steady beat of it eases the clench of his jaw, the knot of unease in his stomach. Shane is alive. He is not a _thing._ And Ryan isn't going to be, either.

He doesn't move from the casual embrace, doesn't comment on the ease of slotting into Shane's arms, or how the other man tucks his chin down under his shoulder, resting his head there. The unclenching of his muscles continues, a gradual ease that leaves him slightly foggy with relief. A year ago, he wouldn't be in this position. Men let into his personal space were there to spar, or play. Basketball, elbows flexed to protect personal space, hands out to push away. Contact wasn't casual, or soft. He sought his comfort from women with soft curves and smaller bodies, even when it was clear (to himself) that they weren't his only interest. He convinced himself he wasn't lesser, he wasn't _different,_ and the no-homo anthem of high school carried him through college and into adult life.

He wasn't _gay—_ not that there's anything wrong with that—but him? No. Never.

And then, Shane. With his stupid casual touches and easy smiles, eyes rolling when Ryan would roll out the hyper-masculine _stay on your side, oh, we just touched hands,_ bullshit. Interrupting his tirades and discomfort until it gradually disappeared. Maybe it's easier to break down walls that are made of sugar, anyway.

"Why," he asks, "Do I feel _better_ now?" It's almost a rhetorical question, one he thinks he already knows the answer to—maybe more so than Shane, who trips and pirouettes around a connection between vampires and the bond initiated with the humans they turn. Ryan listens, but he's already letting words spill out, interrupting Shane's babbling with the decision that was made as soon as the other man walked through the door.

"Just my luck," he sighs into plaid. "A fuckin' newbie vamp turning me."

Shane stiffens, the arms he has around Ryan locking to squeeze slightly tighter. The steady rhythm beneath Ryan's ears stutters, then picks up, working double-time. He pulls back, dark eyes ticking back and forth on Ryan's, unreadable.

"Do you mean...?" Shane trails off, letting the question hang. Ryan knows he doesn't want to say it, knows Shane is trying not to address it too directly. The kid gloves are firmly on, and Ryan has to clear his throat before he can speak, overwhelmed with how _delicate_ Shane is being. Like he's afraid of him breaking into pieces that can't be glued back together.

"Yeah," he says, his hands sliding up to grip Shane's biceps, to keep him there, to make him believe that what he's saying is true. "I'm sorry. I was scared. You're not—"

"It's ok, man," Shane starts, blinking rapidly. "It's my fault, I did this."

" _Listen,"_ Ryan stops him, maybe more firmly than he means to, but he's got to set this right. He said things he can't take back, but he's choosing his words carefully now with a mind clear of prejudice. Of fear. "I said some shitty things, and I didn't mean any of them."

Shane tilts his head like he disagrees.

"You are _not_ a monster." his voice cracks over the ugly word. "You were trying to save my life. You _did_ save my life. And man, I—" he balls Shane's shirt between his fists, twisting to mimic the hot flush of emotion that's running ragged inside. It's not like him to be this way, to try to put to words what he's feeling, but he has to. For Shane. "I don't want to die. And I don't know why, but I'm grateful that you tried to save me in the first place."

He hides his eyes when he says this, lashes like protective bars, choosing the safe neutrality of a downward gaze, of his bare feet and Shane's familiar boots. His cheeks are already heated, whatever's left of his blood rising to the surface to demonstrate how uncomfortable he really is. He doesn't need to see Shane's reaction to it.

He doesn't expect a finger to hook under his chin, an unreadable gaze, and then a press of warm, dry lips. It's chaste, light, like a hummingbird hovering near a feeder, ready to take off at a moment's notice. He hears himself, muffled surprise dying on Shane's lips, but his eyes close automatically, and his hands soften into an embrace, unfurling to pull closer.

The kiss doesn't deepen before it ends, but neither moves away from the closeness. Shane presses his forehead into Ryan's, his hands at the base of his neck, stroking the soft, short hair there.

"I liked that," Ryan feels bashful saying it out loud, but the moment is stretching long, and awkwardness rises underneath his skin. How can Shane seem so _cool_ all the time? Like nothing life throws at him ever causes more of a reaction than a raised, incredulous eyebrow and a shrug before he continues on as normal?

Shane chuckles. "You surprised?" His voice is low, the syllables grinding in to one another, at the same time whiskey-smooth.

"Not as much as I thought I might be." Ryan flushes again when he realizes what he's admitting to, but the realization, as it dawns on him, is that he doesn't much care. Shane, ever sharp, calls him on his words.

"You've thought about it before?"

"Yeah."

"God, Ryan," Shane groans, before kissing him again, this time opening his mouth enough to press further into Ryan's, to surround him and lick in carefully. As he slides over the sharpened edge of a canine, Ryan feels his fingers grip hard, nails surely leaving half-moons in their wake. He breaks the kiss, backing off a little, eyes closed. Ryan watches him take a deep breath, nostrils flaring and chest rising sharply before his lashes part and display and animal _hunger_ that shoots straight through Ryan. Now it's his heart that trips over itself, picking back up sluggishly, off-beat. TV snow fuzz takes over his vision, whiting Shane out completely. But the other man isn't gone, has come back to him, holding him steady as his inner ear careens wildly off-center.

"Breathe through it," he hears, but it's hard when he's lost in a gyroscope of color and shapes and the smell of Shane so close. Eventually, his vision clears, and the other man's furrowed brow comes back into focus.

"I think we're gonna have to back burner further activities until we..."

Ryan bites with slightly too-sharp teeth into a kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"Until you turn me," he finishes.

Ryan's never invited Shane into his bedroom before. Obviously. The other man's been in it, called in to ask opinions about a clothing choice, asked to get things from it. But he hasn't been invited in for the expressed purpose of _intimacy_.

And whatever's about to happen, Ryan's sure, is going to be incredibly intimate. Shane's sitting next to him, back straight as a two-by-four. Their hands are clasped loosely, and the silence is starting to go from comfortable to heavy as the seconds drag themselves by.

"Can I—" Ryan licks his lips. "Can I see it again?'

Shane leans in, shoulders sloping a bit.

"See?" He lifts an eyebrow. Damn him for making quizzical look attractive, rumpled hair falling softly into his eyes, expression open, waiting.

"You. What you showed me before."

Shane looks hesitant, lips pressing together and forehead wrinkling, but his expression goes neutral just as fast.

"It's not because I'm afraid." Ryan squeezes the hand Shane's holding, presses his other to the other man's chest and looks into his eyes. "I just want to see you."

"You see me every day, short stack," Shane grumbles, but the corner of his mouth pulls up, a give Ryan's seen a million times.

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan mutters, eyes widening as a blue light swirls into Shane's irises, a shine that starts subtle, then moves swiftly toward unearthly. It's haunting, how beautiful Shane looks, all glowing eyes, face like carved marble. He opens his mouth and Ryan's moving, reflex arc faster than the scrambling of a mind trapped by Shane's gaze. His fingers press the bottom of Shane's mouth, asking permission before sliding inside to trace the deadly weapons just behind.

He trails his finger along the outer fangs, furthest from the front tooth and gasps when it breaks his skin like a razor cutting through butter. He barely felt it, the puncture, but all of a sudden blood's welling up and _he_ can smell it, the drop hot and thick at the end of his index finger.

Shane's eyes widen, nose flaring at the scent. He stills, breath barely moving his chest. Ryan hums at him, a smile twitching across his lips. He draws his finger down past the teeth and lets the blood paint a red swathe over Shane's tongue, whose eyes flutter shut, mouth closing gently around the digit, tongue curling up at the edge. He's like a cat that got the cream.

Ryan's blood rushes south.

Shane smirks at him as his eyes open, that blue still glowing, a cold burn behind the dark, sooty lashes.

"You feel that," Ryan guesses. Shane just nods, taking Ryan's hand as he slides it out of his mouth, sticky. He sweeps his tongue across the puncture once, twice, and grins as Ryan gasps at the feel of the skin there closing neatly.

"Shit, that's a cool parlor trick," Ryan huffs. The other man's smile is shy, but his eyes light up even more, rivaling the back-lit stars of the sky. His heart aches, filled to capacity.

"Let's do this, Shane. I've wasted enough time already."

Shane's nods, presses his lips together and clears his throat.

"I'm going to bite you. And then, uh," rubbing the back of his neck, he telegraphs his discomfort, but continues on. "And then give you my blood. And you'll sleep. And when you wake up, you'll be like me."

"Ok," he squeezes the other man's hand once, holds the touch out long enough to show that he's ready. He can do this. And he wants to, now. The impulse is there, inside, to finish what was started. To adapt to what seems a whole lot less scary in the light of day, when his lizard brain isn't flooding him with panic and fight or flight instinct. Another squeeze. "Ok."

"Remember," Shane says, a little smirk playing at his mouth. "Do not be afraid."

"Jesus said chill," Ryan agrees, and then Shane's hands are on his, one on his arm, the other at the back of his head, and he's nosing into the juncture between neck and shoulder, pulling in air with a decided sniff that Ryan feels all the way to his toes. A flash of warmth then, quick as a lightning bolt, and just as he realizes that Shane's _licked_ him, there's pressure, a firm _snap_ to his skin, and a jangle of pain across his nerves. It's fire hot and electric, almost sending him rearing back on instinct, but the hand at the back of his neck cradles him, checks his movement and Shane rubs his thumb back and forth there, comforting.

And then. Shit.

If Ryan could speak, he'd probably be making embarrassingly sexual noises. As the pain trickles away, at first leaving a pleasant, fuzzy numbness in his wake, pleasure moves in, lapping through him like the ocean at the shore, then rising in a flood of sensation that is the anticipation of a first kiss, hands pulling through hair and shared, heated breaths of pleasure with a lover. He's pulled under, pulse racing with every swallow Shane pulls. He feels those too, the echo of satisfaction purring through the other man, an instinct that feels old, primal—a wolf howling at the moon and being answered by the call of pack mates.

When the room begins to spin, Ryan hardly notices. It's only when Shane pulls his mouth away, stopping the now-sluggish flow of blood with sweep of his tongue that he reacts, a low whine in his throat. He means to reach out, to pull the other man closer, to hook him back toward his neck and let him drink until there's nothing left. Ryan could let go like this, could fade away into an anesthetic bliss, but his arms don't seem to be working. Impulses go unanswered and synapses fire blanks, even as his mind struggles to bring control back through his body.

 _Relax, Ryan,_ Shane's saying, and he can _hear_ the power in his voice, can _feel_ how it calls him to obey, though at the same time, he knows that now he can resist. The urge to comply isn't iron anymore. He listens anyway and feels himself being lowered back, gently, until his bed is solidly underneath him and he's gazing up at Shane, who takes up all his vision.

Blood is smeared at the side of his mouth. He looks sex-high, eyes wild and lit up, fangs gently peeking out behind red-tinged lips. He brings his forearm to his mouth as if in a trance, eyes still locked on Ryan's. The bite is quick, clinical, and then he's holding his forearm steady as he guides it back to Ryan, pressing it to waiting lips.

 _Drink,_ he says, but Ryan needs no urging. As soon as the skin of Shane's wrist touches down, gravity does its job and blood, hot and ready, flows over his lips.

The first swallow leaves him breathless. It's everything _Shane._ It's words and memories and scent and taste in one, an echo of the other man's life, powerful and charged with the ferocity and instinct and emotion. The small tinge of connection opens up between them, a floodgate with no fail-safe, and they're both drawn in to the power of the change taking over Ryan.

Shane's blood is insistent, and as the taste of spiced wine plays on his tongue, he sighs one last deep breath out before he's pushed into a comfortable darkness, urged to fall asleep human one last time.

Ryan tastes like Shane. Of course, he tastes like himself as well, the heavy scent of salt on skin and chocolate melting in his mouth, but it's mingled now, with the notes of himself, a tapestry woven together rather than a takeover, or scent-marking of ownership.

He's never been comfortable with what he is. It makes him _other_ , different in a way he can't change. After, he tried. He did as much research as humanly (vampiricly?) possible to see if there was a way to come back, to regain the softer, flickering flame of human light, the quick burn that sparks bright with its short years. But no. He's a flashlight in the dark, immortal and steady for all intents and purposes.

He treats his vampirism like a dietary need. Moments of time and memory snatched from various people who went willingly with him into bathroom stalls, or bar alleyways. Non-conventional vitamins, if you will. Every draught he takes hollows him out a little, carving away at the person he used to be. Friendlier. Social. He had friends once, but people who know you well start to notice habits humans don't demonstrate, speed and strength their own muscles could only wish to imitate.

But when Ryan asks to _see_ him, the reality behind the human facade, for the first time, the teeth don't feel wrong and awkward in his mouth. His eyes don't ache at the sudden vault into crystalline perfection. He almost enjoys it, like a stretch just after waking, the release of control he works so hard to keep. And as he stares into Ryan, gauging his reaction, all he sees is acceptance. It echoes through the channel he's opened up with his blood, excitement and a little bit of lush flashing warm in his belly, dipping low so he almost groans with anticipation.

Shane explains what he's going to do, all the while eyes flicking back and forth between Ryan's gaze and the curve of his neck, focused on the fount just under that golden skin.

If he's honest with himself, he's wanted this for longer than he can really say. Ryan has always been the one to wear Shane's disguise the thinnest. He's always careful not to let his guard down, but through all the time he's knows the other man, in all the small moments—Ryan stretching at his desk, cracking his neck before going back to work, or blinking at him in soft morning light, waking up in one of their 'ghostly' locations—Shane has to work the hardest to keep himself a secret from Ryan. His teeth have always itched to come out, to reveal who he is.

"Jesus said chill," Ryan murmurs, and Shane smirks at the moment of levity before reaching out to him. Ryan's maybe too far gone, to weak to notice that Shane's hands are trembling as he moves to cradle the back of his neck, to hold him carefully in place.

And then his teeth are breaking through Ryan's skin, delicately, to be replaced by his mouth in an almost kiss. He's drowning in the sudden sensation, the taste of honey and bourbon on summer nights, the upward release of a lover's embrace, breathe gasping between bodies. He sees and hears and smells, and then images begin to flicker past him.

Ryan, small, a child learning how to ride a bike. He falls, scrapes a knee when he comes down hard on a rock. He swipes at it angrily, streaking it down his leg as it continues to flow steadily and climbs back on the bike.

Ryan, older, in class, heart in his throat, pounding at his temples. A boy stands at the front, introducing himself with a wide, easy smile. "Nice to meet everyone," he says, before being told to sit down next to Ryan. He gazes at the other boy on his periphery, pretending he's looking down at notes.

A woman's face, from above. Ryan's perspective. She's looking into his eyes, wide and open vulnerable. He leans down to kiss her, pausing to touch her jaw and ask if it hurts. She shakes her head, and Ryan bucks his hips.

Shane is on the receiving end of Ryan's life, breathing in moments as he swallows the other man's life down by the mouthful. He aches with the pain, the joy and the monotony of his best friend, unsure just _why_ this is happening. No one else he's drank from has projected their life through to him. He's never bore witness to anyone else's innermost workings.

But as soon as the question of _why_ has formed in his mind, he lets it go, a paper crane carried away easily on the wind, because he's starting to notice a familiar face.

His.

His eyes, shining with alcohol and laughter. They're in his apartment watching a zombie movie, eating popcorn and pizza. Ryan's looking at him, a smile stretched across his face.

Him. In a fucking _cheerleader_ outfit, throwing a medicine ball up and catching it as punishment for not going to his 30 days of what-the-fuck-ever. He strips the top off, sweat glistening in the sun. Ryan jeers at him.

Him, waking up in the Sallie House to Ryan's frantic prods, informing him that the other man is going to move closer and stay there. He rolls over and pulls the other man in, breathing low and deep, hoping to trick Ryan's body into copying his.

Ryan gives him countless versions of himself. Laughing until tears come, tipsy, dancing with coworkers in a circle. Blunt in the morning before coffee. Grumpy, jet-lagged. The other man has absorbed and retained every facet of him. And each moment is framed by affection, the steady dedication he sees in older couples who still clasp hands when they take walks.

 _Holy shit,_ Shane thinks, pulling Ryan closer, clarity streaming back behind his eyes. He pulls away from the other man's neck, closing the wounds there before lowering a boneless Ryan down to the mattress below them. He whines low in his throat, protesting Shane's departure and it's almost enough to make him bite down again.

Instead, gazing into Ryan's half-opened eyes, he brings his wrist up toward his own mouth and opens the vein neatly before pressing it over his waiting mouth.

 _Drink,_ he whispers, not meaning to compel, but he's too far into his vampire nature now; all facets are predatory, glittering and protective of Ryan. He's come too far, suffered too much not to make it out of this alive.

Shane's hand settles in Ryan's hair, stroking the soft strands that part like wheat under his digits. He gives, seconds ticking over into eternity until the easy press of a mouth against his wrist registers. It's a butterfly graze that turns tight and insistent, Ryan's arms springing back to life, hands clenching around his arm like manacles, as if Shane had any intention whatsoever of pulling away. He's not letting the blood flow out so much as _pulling_ it, drawing deeply at the punctures on Shane's wrist, and he's left quaking and shuddering with every bit that leaves him.

He eases off suddenly, eyes rolling into the back of his head, body going limp as sudden as a bolt of lightning. Shane would be worried, but the connection in his head is opening even more, pulling heavy at his muscles, exhaustion seeping in at every corner.

As Ryan's skin pales and his heart slows to a sluggish march, body giving up to let change overtake it, Shane lays down next to him, pulling the other man to himself and throwing a blanket over them both.


End file.
